Cope
by silvercrafted
Summary: The reassignment was unpleasant because it was unwanted, but more so because the man for whom she now worked made chills run down her spine.


It was easy to stand in the safety of her own doorway and tell Edward that everything was fine, that this was an opportunity to gather intel, that the reassignment was manageable. That was easy. She could feign that much without even trying.

The moment of danger had already passed. The dismay of the moment she had read the order, the knot of uncertain worry that had formed in the bottom of her stomach when she had seen the Fuhrer's aide approaching had been pushed through, forced downward with the knowledge that their aim was to split, not to destroy. She could push that down, away, out of mind, because this couldn't be worse than setbacks they'd dealt with before.

So it was easy to tell Edward that everything was fine, when the nagging doubts in the back of her mind could be tempered with the simple thought, _How bad can it be? I'll be fine. I'll deal with whatever happens, and it'll be fine. I am insurance for them against the Colonel, that's all._

It was a different matter entirely to arrive at the gates of Central HQ the next day, knowing that she was walking into the office of the enemy. Knowing that every order from here on out might be something she didn't want to see carried out. She took a deep breath, willing her stomach to unclench, willing her head high, willing every fiber of herself to be soldier and only soldier.

It mostly worked. She was tense, but no more so than could be ascribed to nerves in any other soldier beginning a post with the highest power in Amestris. She knocked, and at the low rumble of the Fuhrer's "Enter", her lips thinned in determination. The door was opened by the Fuhrer's other aide, she entered and saluted; thus the nightmare began.

The first day was the worst, or so she told herself. Storch piled duties upon her which were, for the most part, trivial, but she was constantly conscious of King Bradley's presence: a hulking, deadly creature in human form. His eye upon her made the hair on the back of her neck prickle, but could not let herself turn to meet the glance she knew was focused upon her. Returning home that evening was an exercise in self-control. She was released from the ominous presence of her superior, and the relief to be _away_ was almost overwhelming. But she couldn't let herself give way to the temptation to crumble. This was the first day, first days were always stressful, and it was obviously going to be more so when one knew that one's superior was the incarnation of wrath in human form. It was natural, she told herself, to want to be away.

Hayate greeted her as enthusiastically as always, and at the sight of her faithful hound she had to smile, and bent to ruffle his ears with a sigh.

The days turned into weeks, and her stomach stopped dropping every morning as she entered the office, and it was only the moments where the Fuhrer said something too harsh, which was rarely, or moved too swiftly, that she was forcibly reminded of the dangers she was in. Those moments were bad; she felt as though she'd been dunked in cold water, and the anxiety and stress redoubled in strength. But there was nothing to be done, no one to complain to, and no one who could change anything, so she moved more deliberately until the moment passed, hoping that the Ultimate Eye would not guess the meaning of the difference between this deliberateness of movement and the purpose with which she usually acted.

* * *

The day she met Selim, it was like starting all over again. Delivering papers to the Fuhrer's private residence was stressful, but no more than had become usual for her. The length of her day had made it seem worse, made her shoulders ache more than usual, but it was supposed to have been an uneventful delivery. The sudden bloodlust from behind her had caught her by surprise, and her surprise had only deepened when she had found no cause. There was only Selim Bradley, but her sixth sense had never betrayed her before. It was only after the boy had been shuffled off to bed again, and a few careless words had fallen from Mrs. Bradley's lips that the danger had truly hit. It was at that moment - that instant of ghastly dawning realization - that her stomach plummeted sickeningly further than it had in months, skin crawling with dread.

She had no idea how far her professional facade had fallen when Mrs. Bradley asked if everything was all right, and hastily recomposed herself; she could appear normal. Maybe. Her stomach was still twisted with anxiety, and her breath seemed shallow, but that wouldn't be noticeable to anyone else. She had to leave, get away, to somewhere she could think - so she made her polite excuses, so sorry she couldn't stay. Once the heavy residence doors closed behind her, the dread carried her feet quickly, dismay unfolding itself into a list of grim implications.

She had not gotten far before she realized her stomach could knot tighter upon itself than it already was, and she stopped dead. Fear fought for control over her mind as the sound of shadows extending themselves mingled with the sensation of imminent bloodshed trickling down her spine. She would have loved her gun, would have loved to fight back, but overpowering menace behind her told her she had no chance. Standing her ground was a challenge enough; both fight and flight had been taken from her. Shadow crept up her legs, twisting around, immobilizing; she kept fear at bay with questions, answered with a child's voice that did more to chill her than to keep her mind clear. His offer was impossible; she knew where she stood in this battle, and no amount of battle-dread could change that. The effort of breathing with a body now completely pinned by unnatural shadow arms broke a sweat. Completely immobile, the shadows twisted at her skin, trying to press compliance out of her. All her senses seemed strung overly taut, singing out how close to breaking they all were -

- and then something did break, but it was her skin. She could feel beads of warm blood leave her to trickle down her cheek - abrasions stung at her neck and wrist. It was too obvious, too heavy-handed, and it destroyed the illusion. She smiled in spite of herself - and the smile too was a fearsome thing - she must have done a good job of hiding her stress if they thought she still needed to be frightened. She had far more dire concerns to deal with; she had no time to be playing along with Pride's childish terror games. If they had wanted to kill her, Wrath or Pride could have done it easily, without this drawn out game. They wanted to make her understand her position, but she had understood it months ago. Her fear was temporarily gone, morphed into disgust and impatience. _ Don't waste my time._

It was with his parting words that Pride revealed he knew her after all - knew the card to play to frighten her, how to cast cold shock and dismay through her all over again.

She had tried to stop ranking bad days; they were bad or they were tolerable. The next day was bad. Her tension ran high, awaiting some unspecified imminent danger that never arrived, and she returned home utterly exhausted.

It was the next day that the Colonel sought her out at lunch, as she sat contemplating her food with numb blankness in her mind. These moments of lassitude were a part of her routine now; they kept her from snapping. Their conversation was short; every moment they sat together was a moment Pride might be becoming suspicious. She managed it anyways. The message was conveyed easily only because she had not the mental energy to be more concerned; her facade of normalcy was entirely muscle memory.

The message was sent - she could do no more. Walking back to the Fuhrer's office, she felt something in her stomach unclench, anxiety replaced with dull weariness. There was nothing more they could do to her, and nothing more that they could threaten her with. They had tipped their hand, hoping to frighten her into paralysis, and she had acted anyways. They had underestimated the extent to which her loyalties could overcome her fears. There was no joy in the recognition that she had overcome their attempts to stop her - it was draining to realize that she had done everything she could.

She opened the door to King Bradley's office. Doubtless her days would be filled with tedium punctuated with her visceral reaction to bloodlust - but until she was no longer useful to them, they could do nothing more to her than had already been done. Funny that there was some solace to be had in hitting bottom.


End file.
